Chapter One: Twenty-Three Percent

Blue-white filaments ran inside the pod walls like threads of tiny lightning. Everyone who dreamed of becoming a mech pilot knew what the machine meant. It read neural response, will pressure, spatial sense, combat instinct, and then delivered one cold number. Synchronization rate. Sixty percent gave a candidate the right to operate standard military mechs. Seventy-five put a name on the front-line reserve list. Eighty-five was called talent. Ninety and above made a pilot seed every fleet in the sector would fight to claim. Leon pressed his palm to the interface. Cold metal needles snapped out of the wrist mount and pierced his skin. Neural current climbed his spine.